PAVESE, Cesare
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e nessuno la guarda. A quest’ora in città corron tutti sotto il sole ancor fresco dell’alba. Non cerca nessuno neanche Deola, ma fuma pacata e respira il mattino. Fin che è stata in pensione, ha dovuto dormire a quest’ora per rifarsi le forze: la stuoia sul letto la sporcavano con le scarpacce soldati e operai, i clienti che fiaccan la schiena. Ma, sole, è diverso: si può fare un lavoro piú fine, con poca fatica. Il signore di ieri, svegliandola presto, l’ha baciata e condotta (mi fermerei, cara, a Torino con te, se potessi) con sé alla stazione
a augurargli buon viaggio.
e le piace esser libera, Deola, e bere il suo latte e mangiare brioches. Stamattina è una mezza signora e, se guarda i passanti, fa solo per non annoiarsi. A quest’ora in pensione si dorme e c’è puzzo di chiuso – la padrona va a spasso – è da stupide stare là dentro. Per girare la sera i locali, ci vuole presenza
e in pensione, a trent’anni, quel po’ che ne resta, si è perso.
e si guarda nel fresco del vetro. Un po’ pallida in faccia: non è fumo che stagni. Corruga le ciglia. Ci vorrebbe la voglia che aveva Marí, per durare in pensione (perché, cara donna, gli uomini vengon qui per cavarsi capricci che non glieli toglie né la moglie né l’innamorata) e Marí lavorava instancabile, piena di brio e godeva salute. I passanti davanti al caffè non distraggono Deola che lavora soltanto la sera, con lente conquiste nella musica del suo locale. Gettando le occhiate a un cliente o cercandogli il piede, le piaccion le orchestre che la fanno parere un’ attrice alla scena d’amore con un giovane ricco. Le basta un cliente ogni sera e ha da vivere. (Forse il signore di ieri mi portava davvero con sé). Stare sola, se vuole,
al mattino, e sedere al caffè. Non cercare nessuno.
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and no one looks at her. Everyone runs at this time in the city under a sun still fresh of dawn. Deola neither looks for anyone, calmly she smokes instead, and breathes the morning. When she was at boarding, she had to sleep at this hour to make her forces anew: the mat on the bed dirtied by soldiers and workers’ raw shoes, the customers who exhaust your back. But, on one’s own, it is different: you can do a finer job with little labour. The yesterday gentleman, waking her early, kissed her and brought her (I would remain, darling, in Turin with you, if I could) with him to the station
to be wished good bye.
and she likes to be free, Deola, and drinking her milk and eating brioches. This morning she’s half a madame and if watches the passers-by, it’s only not to get bored. At this hour in the boarding-house one sleeps and the air stinks -the mistress goes for a walk- it’s for the stupid staying in there. In order to go around for clubs, at evening, you need presence
and in the house the bit you’ve left is lost at thirty.
And watches herself in the freshness of glass. A bit pale in the face: it is not the stanching smoke. She wrinkles her brows. One would need the fancy Marì had, to last in the house (because, dear woman, men come here to dig out whims neither the wife or the lover take out) and Marì worked untiring, full of spirit, and she had good health. In front of the café people don’t distract Deola who works only at night, with slow conquests in the music of her club. Casting glimpses to some customer or finding his foot, she likes orchestras making her seem an actress in the love scene with a wealthy guy. One customer’s enough for each night and she can live on. (Maybe the yesterday gentleman really would take me with him). Being alone, if she wants,
in the morning, and sit at the café. Looking for no-one.
en niemand kijkt naar haar. Op dit uur loopt iedereen gehaast door de stad in de nog koele ochtendzon Ook Deola is naar iemand op zoek: terwijl ze rustig zit te roken, ademt ze de morgen in. Toen ze nog in het bordeel was, moest ze slapen op dit uur om weer op krachten te komen, en de bedsprei was bevuild door modderschoenen van fabrieksarbeiders en soldaten: je levert beter werk af en het kost je minder moeite De heer van gisteren wekte haar vroeg, zoende haar en troonde haar mee (als ik kon, dan bleef ik bij je in Turijn, schatje) naar het station
om zich uit te laten wuiven
ze voelt zich goed en vindt het heerlijk vrij te zijn, melk te drinken en croissants te eten. Vandaag is ze bijna een dame en ze kijkt alleen naar de passanten uit verveling. Op dit uur slaapt het hele bordeel, het ruikt er muf, Madame is op stap. Je moet wel gek zijn om daar te blijven. Om ‘s avonds de danstenten af te gaan, heb je présence nodig en de weinige présence die je op je dertigste nog rest
gaat onherroepelijk in zo’n bordeel verloren.
in ‘t koele glas. Wat bleekjes in het gezicht: dat komt niet door de rook. Ze fronst de wenkbrauwen. Om lang mee te gaan in een bordeel heb je de wilskracht nodig van Marie (want, m’n beste meisje, mannen komen hier om grillen uit te leven die ze bij hun vrouw noch bij hun liefje kwijt kunnen) en Marie, die werkte onvermoeibaar, stralend, en ze blaakte van gezondheid. Deola slaat geen acht op de passanten voor ’t café: zij werkt enkel ’s avonds laat, met langzame veroveringen bij de muziek in haar tent. Terwijl ze naar een klant lonkt of zijn voet onder de tafel zoekt, geniet ze van het orkest en voelt zich een actrice in een liefdesscène met een rijke jongeling. Eén klant per avond is voor haar genoeg. (Misschien wilde die heer van gisteren mij ècht meenemen.) Alleen zitten in het café
als ze daar ‘s morgens zin in heeft. Niemand moeten zoeken.
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Death will come with your eyes
Death will come with your eyes—
this death that accompanies us
from morning till night, sleepless,
deaf, like an old regret
or a stupid vice. Your eyes
will be a useless word,
a muted cry, a silence.
As you see them each morning
when alone you lean over
the mirror. O cherished hope,
that day we too shall know
that you are life and nothing.
For everyone death has a look.
Death will come with your eyes.
It will be like terminating a vice,
as seen in the mirror
a dead face re-emerging,
like listening to closed lips.
We'll go down the abyss in silence.
Love Affairs
It’s dawn on the black hills, and the cats
drowse on the tiles. A boy fell from the roof
last night and broke his back. The wind
quivers in the cool of the leaves. The red clouds,
high in the sky, are warm and move slowly.
Down in the alley a stray dog’s sniffing
the dead boy on the cobbles. But a shrill wail
rises among the tiles: someone’s unhappy.
The crickets were chirping all night, and the stars
went out in the breeze. The brightness of dawn
quenches even the eyes of cats in heat–
the cats the boy was watching. The female
was wailing for her tom. Nothing’s any use–
not the treetops or the red clouds–she wails
to the bright sky, as if it were still night.
The boy was spying on the cats making love.
The snarling dog nosing the boy’s body
was there before dawn. He was running from the light
on the back of the hill when the light caught him
swimming in the river, drenched with water
like a meadow in the morning dew. The bitches
were still howling.
The stream runs smoothly, skimmed
by swallows. Down from the red clouds they dip
in joy at finding the river deserted.
Grappa in September
The mornings run their course, clear and deserted
along the river's banks, which at dawn turn foggy,
darkening their green, while they wait for the sun.
In the last house, still damp, at the field's edge,
they sell tobacco, which is blackish in color
and tastes of sugar: it gives off a bluish haze.
They also have grappa there, the color of water.
There comes a moment when everything is still
and ripens. The trees in the distance are quiet
and their darkness deepens, concealing fruit so ripe
it would drop at a touch. The occasional clouds
are swollen and ripe. Far away, in city streets,
every house is mellowing in the mild air.
This early, you see only women. The women don't smoke,
or drink. All they know is standing in the sun,
letting it warm their bodies, as though they were fruit.
The air, raw with fog, has to be swallowed in sips,
like grappa. Everything here distills its own fragrance.
Even the water in the river has absorbed the banks,
steeping them to their depths in the soft air. The streets
are like the women. They ripen by standing still.
This is the time when every man should stand
still in the street and see how everything ripens.
There is even a breeze, which does not move the clouds
but somehow succeeds in maneuvering the bluish haze
without scattering it. The smell drifting by is a new smell.
The tobacco is tinged with grappa. So it seems
the women are not alone in enjoying the morning.
In the Morning You Always Come Back
Dawn’s faint breath
breathes with your mouth
at the ends of empty streets.
Gray light your eyes,
sweet drops of dawn
on dark hills.
Your steps and breath
like the wind of dawn
smother houses.
The city shudders,
Stones exhale—
you are life, an awakening.
Star lost
in the light of dawn,
trill of the breeze,
warmth, breath—
the night is done.
You are light and morning.